


One Shining Moment of Pooh Sticking

by orbis_terrarum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War Allegory, Cultural exchange, Disney References, Hetalia Kink Meme, Human Names, M/M, Multi, Playing in the Mud, Vinni Puh References, Winnie the pooh references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbis_terrarum/pseuds/orbis_terrarum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America, Russia, and England engage in a battle of sticks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Shining Moment of Pooh Sticking

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt said, "Well I dunno about you, but I want to see some good ol' fashioned weird competitions. And I've got just the thing! >D [I looked up weird sports just for this](http://deadspin.com/sports/weird-sports/one-shining-moment-of-pooh-sticking-163002.php)~
> 
> Yes. Pooh sticking. Sorry if this is too specific. x.x"
> 
> How could I pass this one up?

Alfred is sulking under a tree some distance from the bridge, his arms folded, his knees drawn up. "It's a stupid game!" he shouts, freeing one hand to cup it around his mouth like a megaphone.

"You're only tetchy because you lost," Arthur calls back serenely. He's standing at the bridge rail, Ivan at his side, the both of them holding long sticks over the edge. Arthur's stick is thin, smooth, streamlined--the better _not_ to get caught on weeds beneath the surface, which had been the fate of Alfred's oversized stick. Ivan, on the other hand, has cobbled together his 'stick' from scraps of others, bits of bark and vine tied together with a thin bit of creeper. It's ramshackle, but he's beaming with pride for it nonetheless.

"Please admit that I have the superior stick," he requests, pleasantly. "Must we test our production in the field?"

"The idea's to test it in the stream, old thing," says Arthur. "Ready?"

"Ready~!" They count to three, together, and then drop their sticks. Arthur's gets caught by the smooth current, slipping downstream slowly but easily, as the two men crowd over to the other rail to see which stick will emerge first.

There are floating bits of bark in the water, disengaged bits of creeper, a forlorn-looking vine. Ivan's stick has disintegrated.

"I win!" The Russian slaps Arthur's back heartily, nearly tipping him headfirst into the water and onto his emerging stick.

"Your stick fell _apart_!" cries Arthur. He can feel himself turning purple with outrage. "You can't win with a stick that falls apart!"

"You're just touchy because you're _losing_!" adds the peanut gallery, from under the tree.

Arthur doesn't dignify that with a response; he's too busy reclaiming his personal space from Ivan. The Russian is still smiling, utterly enchanted with his victory. "This is a delightful sport! Much better than our national sport; there is never a spare bullet when you want to play ... what was it called?"

Arthur mumbles something.

"What was that?"

Another mumble.

"I can't--"

"POOH-STICKING, all right? We call it Pooh-sticking."

"Like in Winnie-the-Pooh," Alfred pipes up. "Ooh, Vinni-Puh!" cries Ivan, comprehension dawning. "The masterpiece of Soviet television~"

"Hey, hey!" says Alfred. He clambers to his feet, marching to the bridge and seizing Ivan by the scarf. "Winnie the Pooh is a Disney icon! An _American_ icon! We had him first!" He begins humming the theme song like a grim march, while Arthur raises his bushy brows.

"Actually, you'll find _we_ had him first. Milne was an Englishman," comments Milne's fellow Englishman, dryly. Alfred drops his fistful of scarf and rounds on him.

"You just _have_ to win everything, don't you! Well, you know what I think? You know what I think?"

"You think?"

With an incoherent screech, Alfred heaves himself against the bridge rail. "I wanna play Ivan's national sport. Except we play with the gun fully loaded, and we stop after we point it at _you_."

"That isn't how you play," says Ivan solemnly; "I _know_ ," answers Alfred.

After a moment of tense silence, Arthur extends his hand. "It's not so bad as all that. Your country's been positively cleaning up at the Olympics."

"Yeah, I know. Because we do actual _awesome_ sports, like swimming!" Alfred glances down into the water of the stream, and then back up at his fellow competitors. "Anyone wanna go swimming with me?"

"It's far too shallow. And anyway, we haven't got any bathing suits!"

"So we swim naked. Wade naked. What _ever_." There is no mistaking the glint in the American's eye; it is both challenge and dare and promise.

Alfred is the first to strip down to nothing--of course. He puts a hand on the rail of the bridge and leaps over into the stream below, sending up a heavy splash of water that douses Arthur's trouser legs. "You're _barbaric_ ," he growls, but Ivan is undoing his shirt as well, and Alfred is giving him that challenging look ... and his trousers _are_ wet now.

He rolls his eyes and starts on the buttons.

By the time Arthur is naked, Ivan has also leapt over the bridge rail, eyes bright and laugh ringing over the little valley. He splashes Alfred, who laughs and splashes back as though the two had never been fighting. That's how it always is, when they fight; after a time, they find that they can't muster the energy to hate one another any longer.

There are also dueling Winnie-the-Pooh/Vinni-Puh theme songs being hummed, but the conflict has grown cold in the sunlight, and the pair looks almost-- _almost_ \--innocent.

Arthur realizes that he is staring, and skirts around the bridge to join them in the water.

"About time you joined us," says Alfred, pouncing on Arthur at once and wrestling him to the stream floor. Arthur shouts; it's _disgusting_ and soft and muddy, and he is getting mud in his hair and he can't quite get a grip on Alfred to drown the bastard ...

Quite suddenly, he's being kissed, sweet and giddy and thorough (the way Alfred does everything). And Arthur indulges him in this, the way he indulges him in everything, because those lips are soft and softly parted under his own, and he's being cradled on the stream floor as though it's a bed. "Gotcha," Alfred grins, when they break.

"The winner should have a kiss, too," says Ivan, and Alfred lets Arthur go to stand and give the Russian a slow, muddy kiss. "You're _still_ not the winner," says Alfred, with a wink. His hands are on Ivan's hips, though, and they're laughing like schoolboys. They're kissing as though they've done this before.

Arthur suddenly remembers a meeting, in the Crimea--could it have been so long ago?--when Alfred had reached across the space between himself and Ivan. Put a hand on his knee. "We could use your help against Japan," he'd said, and Arthur had wondered if Ivan understood what it meant that Alfred was asking for help. Ivan had asked with a smile if they could cut off Yao's arm first to make him bleed red.

He can't remember whether Alfred had said yes, but he remembers that hand on Ivan's knee. Like the hand on Ivan's firm arse, kneading the flesh there. Easy to forget the particulars of the past when relations are good and the sun's warm and high over them; Arthur inserts himself into their clinch and kisses them both, one at a time. He can feel Alfred's glasses digging into his cheek, and it's awkward and uncomfortable until Alfred tilts his head and licks down Arthur's neck, tongue hot and soft. He would protest that there is _mud_ there, it's filthy--but his own tongue is in Ivan's mouth, and the dirt doesn't matter when the Russian's fingers are curling down the cleft of his arse.

The others push him to his knees on the bank, and he goes willingly, hands clenching in the soft grass. Dignity dictates that one _not_ be fucked against a streambank by a probably-insane Russian, but dignity doesn't feel nearly as good as the hand on his cock and the fingers spreading him open. Arthur's brows draw together, and he can't help making low, strangled-censored sounds of encouragement and want. Behind him, he can hear Ivan cursing softly and fervently in Russian; when Arthur glances back, he sees Alfred kneeling behind them, working Ivan's arse with his tongue and his long, wicked fingers.

When Ivan slides into him, Arthur stifles a roar of pain and impatience--he's fucking _enormous_ , and all at once Arthur wants all of that length and girth inside of him. Slowly, painfully, Ivan sinks into him, his hands on Arthur's hips. He's laughing, as though this is a joke or a game--then his breath catches, and Arthur knows that Alfred's pressing in.

The three of them find a rhythm, jolting and uncertain and awkward. They gripe and they make dire threats; they even bring themselves to beg, _more, faster, just like that_. Ivan's hand is rough on Arthur's cock, Alfred's mouth soft on Ivan's neck.

When it's over, and they're curled up dirty on the grass, Alfred reaches over to ruffle Arthur's hair. "That was fun," he says, irrepressible as ever.

"That was public indecency," Arthur answers, but he captures Alfred's hand and kisses it.

Ivan settles between them, spooned up against Arthur, with his arm loosely draped around Alfred's waist. "Cultural exchange is so pleasant, is it not?" he remarks cheerfully. "We have given each other Vinni-Puh, and this sport that I won, and now we have shared fun public indecency."

"We might share a bath," says Arthur.

Alfred grins. "Sure! Everyone wins. Especially me."


End file.
